


When Do I Get To Be Happy?

by RavenMorganLeigh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Broken John, Broken Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Eventual Johnlock, F/M, His Last Vow, Hurt Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Protective Mycroft, Season/Series 03, discussion of polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenMorganLeigh/pseuds/RavenMorganLeigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary approach Sherlock with a proposition...and are surprised by the answer.<br/>And that conversation is the catalyst that triggers a domino effect of realizations about themselves and each other that will change everything...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just me playing with characterization in my head (and now on my laptop)! 
> 
> Just so you folks know, the following bit of writing has nothing to do with my attitude towards Poly relationships, I lived in a Poly Household for nearly a decade. 
> 
> I also actually LIKE John quite a bit, as I love all the characters of Sherlock; this is my attempt to ..well, play with the characters and their motivations, flaws, strengths, as I see them...
> 
> This is also my first attempt at writing in the BBC Sherlock Fandom, so don't kill me! :-)
> 
> Catch up with me here:   
> http://ravenbasslady.tumblr.com/

______________________________________________________________________________

“No.” Sherlock gave his reply though clenched teeth. 

John gave a nervous chuckle. “Sherlock…”

Mary gave her husband a slightly worried glance. “Sherlock, would you just hear us out?” She was showing, more than ever, and gratefully accepted John’s arm as he helped her to a chair. 

John’s chair, Sherlock growled internally. That won’t do at all, he thought, and tamped down that deeply territorial impulse. It wasn’t— John wasn’t— his any longer. But this suggestion of theirs… dammit, he was the one that was supposed to be so ignorant about human nature, as Mary had once told him; how could they not see what this was doing to him, how this was killing him? 

Comfortably seated, Mary looked up at Sherlock,with that gaze that seemed so warm, so reassuring. Sherlock felt manipulated. And John was giving the same look, tinged with a certain condescension as if Sherlock was missing something, here. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “ I can’t be what you want me to be. Haven’t I changed enough for you, John? This— this is impossible.” 

“Why?” John ran his hands over his face, obviously frustrated.”You LIKE experiments. Think of it like that.” 

“You don’t understand what you’re asking.” Sherlock felt panic rising, and had to turn away. He got up and walked to the window, staring out at the traffic. “It would hurt me, it would be more painful than I have the capacity to endure. And I have endured a lot of pain— for you, John— and you, Mary.” 

He turned slowly to face them both. “I won’t be in some sort of polyamorous sexual relationship with you. Because…I don’t want to sleep with you, Mary, and I won’t share John with you, either.” 

“No one said you had to sleep with me, Sherlock, I’m well aware women aren’t your cup of tea,” Mary said, seriously, “But what about John? Don’t you want him to be happy?”

John looked at Sherlock hopefully. 

“Get out.” Sherlock snapped. 

“Wait- wha-” John shot to his feet, hands out as if trying to calm a terrified animal. ”We just thought—”

 

“For the last two years— the last two years, John, my whole life has been about your happiness, your well-being, John!” Sherlock got up close to John, right in his face, trembling with exhaustion and inner pain.

John stood his ground, clenching his fists again. Sherlock flinched away, and John had the grace to look ashamed. 

“Boys,” Mary said, “Boys, take a breath.Sherlock, what do you mean. We didn’t bring this up to hurt you.We thought—we thought you’d be happy. And John—”

 

“ I lost my work, my friends, and then very nearly my life, yes, thank you Mary, all in the name of keeping you safe, keeping you happy, “ Sherlock snarled. “And I failed, John, you’ve told me this often enough— I’m not human, I’m a machine. So, I quit— I surrender,I surrendered you.” He took a deep breath, and wound both hands in his hair, tugging savagely. 

“And now that I’ve resigned myself to what you have told me is my allotment of happiness; you want me to do something that will quite literally kill me, so that you can be happy. What about me? When do I get to be happy, John? When is it enough?”

“I just thought—” John stopped, clenching his fists. “-I thought that you wanted this. With me—” 

“Not like this.” Sherlock, absolutely mortified, felt his eyes stinging. “ I —I need you both to leave. Now,” he said, hearing his own voice wobbling with grief.”Please.” He walked back to the window, trying to control the fine tremors rattling though his thin frame.

 

John crossed the room to help Mary out of the chair. They exchanged glances, equal parts rueful and concerned. 

 

John ushered Mary to the door with a hand at her back. He stopped at the threshold and turned back to Sherlock. “We didn’t mean to upset you. Talk later?” 

Sherlock’s voice was a ruin. “Later.” 

Mary and John left, leaving Sherlock a gutted husk. 

 

**

 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s sleep slurred voice leaked concern; he was unguarded and open at this hour.” What is it, what’s wrong?” 

“I- I think I made a mistake.” 

“Sherlock? What kind of mistake?” Mycroft suddenly sounded much more alert.”Are you—are you alright?”

“No.” 

Sherlock could hear his brother sitting up in bed, could almost hear the wrinkles on his face scrunching up in worry. “Mycroft, can I — can I come by the house?”

“You’re always welcome here, you know that. Do you want quiet, or do you want to talk?” 

“I- I think I need to talk. I need an assignment. Away from London.” 

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Come by, and we’ll discuss it.” 

 

**

+++++

So, that's it...for now. I don't know if I'm going to continue this, but it got me writing, and that's a good thing. Feel free to comment, I'd love to hear what you think. :-)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks Mycroft for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note to let folks know how blown away that people are actually reading this. Thank you so much, and those of you who have commented— you’ll never know how much your kind words have meant to me. :-)  
> This is not betaed, nor has it been Brit-Picked, and one of these days, I’d love a beta.

_________________________________________________________

Sherlock stood in the foyer,soaking wet,hunched over into himself, the very picture of despondency. Mycroft was so shocked, it took him a couple of tries to speak. Drugs? No, this might actually be worse. Finally he got the words out. “Are you hurt?” 

Pale eyes reddened from tears glanced up at him for a second until flicking back to the floor. 

“Ah—” Mycroft hesitantly reached toward his brother, then drew back. “Come in to the study, Sherlock.” 

Staggering forward, Sherlock followed his brother through the dim hals, and into the warmth of the study. The fire had been lit, and blazed with warmth. Sherlock let his sodden coat slide off onto the priceless Persian rug; Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He got out the brandy instead, poured generous measures for each of them, and handed one to Sherlock who stood close to the fire, staring into the flames. Sherlock took a long gulp, then another and held his glass out to be refilled. 

“Help yourself,” Mycroft murmured, handing Sherlock the bottle. “--ashtray’s next to you, on the mantle. Please use it. Now what is it that you want?” 

“I want to go back into the field--” the detective said tonelessly, “--as soon as possible.” 

“Why?” Mycroft asked, simply. 

“I can’t stay here.” 

“Is it… John?” Of course it was, Mycroft’s wry inner commentator supplied. 

Silence.

“ I told you—” Mycroft began, then broke off. Best not to finish that sentence. “I- I’ll do what I can. But I think now is not the best time to make such a decision. Think about this for a little while?”

“Why? Nothing will change. And you need me.”

“I need you alive, Sherlock--” , Mycroft bit out, and put his hand over his mouth, as if to try to call the words back, or hold them in; he wasn't sure what, anymore. But his little brother was broken,more broken than he’d ever seen him. He’d seen it coming and everything he’d ever tried to do for him had been interpreted as meddling, snooping, and had only resulted in increasing the awkwardness between them. 

Mycroft clamped down on his well buried feelings, knowing he had to get control of himself before he could help Sherlock. But it was difficult, when he’d always had the image of a fragile, bright child in his head. and as always, that image superimposed itself over the face of the damaged man in front of him; Sherlock, who in his own way still looked to his big brother for salvation. He had to almost forcibly remind himself to treat Sherlock like an adult, particularly when he was like this. Maybe honesty would be more effective. 

“--I want you to be …happy.”, Mycroft sighed. 

Sherlock’s back stiffened, and he woodenly turned around to face his brother. “ I was happy. For a time. I didn't even know that’s what that feeling was. And then I lost it-- through my own folly.” His mouth twisted into a moue of deep, internal pain. “And now— I could have what I wanted— and it’s all wrong. I’m what’s wrong.” 

“Sherlock—” Mycroft was beginning to get that cold feeling of dread he remembered from all those times before; getting a call that Sherlock had overdosed; getting another communique that Sherlock had been captured and hadn’t broken under torture; seeing him lift a gun and aim it an an unarmed man in the full view of witnesses…. “Sherlock, listen to me. Whatever has happened, we can deal with it. I’ll help you in anyway I can.” 

“Even if it means putting me back into the field?” 

“Even that, but there are conditions on this. Non-negotiable.” 

“Such as?”Sherlock seemed too exhausted to even muster up a proper sneer. 

“You wait until you are calmer, and we take a reasonable look at this again-- tomorrow.”

Dragging a hand roughly through his damp hair, Sherlock gave Mycroft a stiff nod. “Tomorrow, then.”

This was worse than Mycroft had initially thought. Sherlock, agreeing with him? To conditions? 

Obviously wilting fast, Sherlock swayed, and Mycroft rose to take the empty glass from him before it could fall to the carpet. 

“Over here,little brother,” Mycroft murmured as he steered Sherlock towards a chair. Sherlock all but fell into it, promptly wilting. Slowly his breath evened out; he was fast asleep. 

“That’s better. Sleep well,Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft whispered, taking the vial of clear, potent liquid from the pocket of his robe, turning it around in his fingers. “I daresay, you’ll sleep until I do what I need to— and this requires the utmost delicacy.” Putting the vial back into his pocket, he reached for a throw to drape gently over his brother. 

 

Tiredly,he slumped down into his chair and picked up his phone, punching in a code. The application opened revealing video feed of Sherlock’s flat. It didn't take long to find the section of the evening pertinent to tonight’s events. Mycroft watched as John and Mary Watson entered the flat. 

He began to listen, growing more appalled with every word of the conversation. Mycroft hadn’t believed that John could be so thoughtless as to be cruel. Or was this simply the dullness of a well-meaning goldfish? He ran a hand over his face as another thought occurred to him. This was Mary’s influence, it has to be, he reflected. But to what purpose? 

He gazed at his brother, drugged into slumber. Broken, all broken. 

“John…John, what have you done?”

****


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tries to help Sherlock, and recruits some of his friends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank to you who have commented; it's helped keep me writing! I'm so grateful for all the support. And as always, critique and more commentary is very much appreciated!

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

 

Greg Lestrade fought the urge to throw his obnoxiously buzzing phone through the window. Instead, like the good copper he was, he answered. “It’s gone half 3 in the morning. What do you want?”

“Are you aware that my brother is in crisis?”

Greg sat up straight. “Sherlock?”

“Do you remember what happened when Sherlock revealed the truth of his living status to Dr. Watson?”

Mycroft’s voice sounded tired, Greg noted. “They had a quite the row. There were a few punches thrown. But they worked it all out, yeah?”

“Apparently, not quite.”

“Is John taking it out on Sherlock again?” Greg asked carefully.

“Not in that way. Most refreshing. But it’s a dicey situation and I could use your assistance and your discretion.”

“How?”

“John’s wife. Mary.”

“Mary? Whatever for?”

“I’ve long had my suspicions about Sherlock’s shooting last year.”

“Yeah, we never found the shooter, and John seemed to think that Sherlock was protecting someone.” Greg thought back to that conversation.

The night of the shooting, it had seemed that the shock of nearly losing Sherlock had shaken John terribly, and that’s why Greg had never really pushed it. But after the crisis was over, after Sherlock had been returned to the hospital via ambulance, John had distanced himself from Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, from them all. If Greg hadn’t known better, he’d have thought John was protecting someone himself.

But this was John. And Mary? Mycroft wasn’t making sense.

Mycroft seemed to sense the need to tread with care. “I think I know whom that might person might be. Or at least who is behind it. But I need evidence.”

“And you think that Mary might have had something to do with Sherlock’s shooting?” Greg demanded, incredulously. “Are you barking?”

“No, and I don’t know. But there are things that don’t add up. I need you to be his friend first, an investigator second.”

“I am his friend”, Greg shot back.

“I’m quite worried for him, Greg.”

“Alright. What do I need to know, what do I need to do?” Greg hauled himself out of bed and shuffled to his tiny kitchen for coffee. It was looking like his sleep time was over for the night.

 

***

 

“Ah, Mr. Wiggins. You were supposed to be reformed, were you not?”

Sprawled against the rickety wall of the drugs den, Billy opened blurry eyes to stare at the filthy wooden floor in front of him only to be near-blinded by the shiniest pair of shoes he’d ever seen in his life.

Oh.

His eyes traveled up the long legs clad in fine wool trousers, crisply pressed, jacket, trench coat that cost more than Billy could earn in six months, even with his premium blends. He sighed deeply, not needing to look at the face, he remembered that lordly drawl all too well, from being an unwelcome participant and chemist at the Holmes’ that Christmas past.

 

“Mr. Holmes.” Billy said, “Sherlock ain’t here, ain’t on the sauce, as you like to call it.”

 

Mr. Holmes raised a fine, sardonic eyebrow. “Are you quite sure? When is the last time you saw him?”

 

“Well, y’know, I’m his protégé,” Billy said, “But there ‘avent been any cases lately. ‘E calls me when I’m useful.”

 

“Good. Then I have a job for you.”

 

“I won’t take your money to spy on ‘im. He warned me about you.”

 

“Oh, did he?”

 

“Said you were his Arch-Enemy, he did.”

 

Mr. Holmes chuckled with genuine delight. “Well, so I am. But I’m also his big brother, and I worry about him. And if you care about him, you’ll do what I ask; keep a weather eye on him for me. And if he shows signs of going back to his old ways, you tell me.”

Billy noted the thinning hair, the tension at the corners of the mouth. Mud on the shoes, Mr. Holmes had actually walked down here to the drugs den himself, no sign of an escort. Eyes were too bright, yet exhausted. Huh. Mr. Holmes really was worried.

“He’s in danger?” Billy asked.

Mr. Holmes gave Billy a look of approval. “Yes, grave danger.” He reached into his inner chest pocket, drawing out a burner phone.

“Right. I suppose this is untraceable, secure?” Billy took the phone, shoved into the front pocket of his filthy jeans. “I’ll call if there’s trouble.” He held his hand out. “Ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?”

Mr. Holmes gave Billy a half-hearted sneer, but tossed him a roll of cash.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you Mr. Holmes.” Billy stuffed the bills into his pocket and hauled himself to his feet to watch the tall man saunter away. Time to go to work.

 

***

 

“You drugged me!” Sherlock snarled. He’d been awakened by nightmares; an unfortunate consequence of his time away. After one of these episodes, it always took him some time to recognize where he was, whether he was in his own bedroom or…elsewhere.

This time, he’d thought he was back in Prague, and he’d panicked thinking the Baron would use him again; The Baron had been brutal, merciless—

 

—-it had taken Mycroft’s voice in his ear, anchoring him to the present to break him out of that endless hell.

Wasn’t he supposed to be on a plane headed somewhere, anywhere else? But Mycroft was speaking.

“—-I’m sorry, Sherlock—”

Sherlock’s teeth were gritted, trying to keep them from chattering. Despite the warmth of the room, he felt cold to the bone. “How dare you—”

“You were overwrought.” Mycroft said blandly. “I thought it best, you weren't making much sense.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort and stopped, cold. Because what Mycroft had said was more than likely. There were too many times that Sherlock found himself lost, not quite knowing whether what he was experiencing was real, or if he was still taking refuge in his Mind Palace. It had turned into a prison, a torture chamber.

When John and Mary had showed up at the flat, asking him… but that hadn’t been real, had it?

Could his mind come up with something that would…hurt…so badly?

Oh…

“Sherlock?”

Stupid boy.

“Sherlock, are you hearing me?”

Stupid, stupid—

Something, an animal was snarling. Mycroft was on the floor. Sherlock blinked.

“Sherlock, let go. Stop!”

Sherlock blinked. Blinked again, hard, and colors resolved themselves into shapes becoming more and more distinct. His hands were hurting, clenched around his brother’s throat. The growling sound stopped, and Sherlock staggered backwards to fall to the floor. He scrabbled away from Mycroft, who sat up clearing his throat painfully.

“No harm done, brother mine,” Mycroft said, voice raspy. He cleared his throat and got stiffly to his feet.

“I am. I.” Sherlock tried. Words were hard.

“Shhhhh.” Mycroft was slowly coming closer, hands held outward. “It’s alright.”

“I. Don’t. Know what’s real.”

“I’m real. You’re safe.” Mycroft sank down next to Sherlock on the floor, not touching, just being there. “You’re safe now.”

He was cold, so cold. He inched a little towards Mycroft, listening to the soft words of comfort. He closed his eyes and let himself fall.

And Mycroft caught him.

 

**

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

It should have been a glorious, lazy Saturday morning. Even though it was late January, the mild weather seemed more like an early spring day than the deep end of winter. 

John wished fervently that he could just rest there on the couch, watching telly, but Mary had her baby shower today, and required that he vacate the living room. And, if he were honest with himself, which he almost never was, he couldn’t wait to be out of there. The flat seemed heavy and ravenous and smothering, and John always felt as if he were slowly suffocating. He knew he was being unreasonable, but when he woke from yet another nightmare in which his mind was torn to pieces by the malignant images of his wife all in black --

STOP.

An hourglass filled with blood instead of sand turned dripping vivid red and his time was running out—

STOP.

Breathe.

John sat up on the couch, sore and stiff. He rose, tried not to favor his leg, ignoring how his hand shook as he hurriedly stuffed his bedclothes into the hall closet. The ache in John’s shoulder slowly eased as he showered and dressed in record time. He prepared himself to go into the kitchen, taking deep, greedy breaths; as if he were diving into unfathomable darkness. She’s my wife, he told himself, she loves me, I love her. Light returned. He squared his shoulders, relaxed his hands, and at the last moment, remembered to amble unconcernedly into the kitchen. 

Mary was already at the table, setting out mugs for coffee, and tea. She was almost at the end of her term; heavy with their daughter; ungainly and uncomfortable. John dutifully took the coffee pot from her, poured himself a mug, and got the water boiling for her herbal tea. The toaster dinged, and John plated slices of toast and brought them to the table. 

It was always so awkward in the mornings. 

“You’re having nightmares again,” Mary said solicitously, as she passed the cream to John. “The war, again?”

 

John grunted in reply, not wanting to say anything she could use to start...anything. He stirred the cream into his coffee placidly, concentrating hard to remember the woman before him was his wife, his Mary, loving, and gentle, and not the assassin who had put a bullet into Sherlock’s liver. It’s Mary, Mary, Mary— only Mary, and round and round the litany curled around in his head, slowly becoming reality. 

Maybe if he kept repeating the mantra, he could forget—- 

It was better some days. Not today, Mary had been right. He’d been having nightmares again, but they weren’t of Afghanistan, they were of Mary with a gun—

STOP.

Mary; her limbs lengthening and becoming black and hard and sharp and thin…

STOP.

Mary shot him a look; worry and slyness and something malevolent all mixing into one complex, troubling expression. 

John mentally simplified that expression into concern. Yes, he told himself, concern; she was worried for him, like any proper wife would be. He wasn’t doing it right. He was wrong--Oh. Now, he understood. “I’m just worried about Sherlock. The way we left him…” That was the right answer, right? The correct response? His heart spasmed in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. 

 

Mary quirked a fond grin at him. “That could have gone better. I was sure that it would be something he wanted.” She slathered a piece of toast with raspberry jam, and John hid his wince. Raspberry jam had always been Sherlock’s favorite. 

John wet his lips, ducked his head. “I didn’t think— you said he’d like it, that this was a good solution to our…ah…problems.” The knot in his chest tightened. He’d hurt Sherlock, he knew he had. How could he have done that? 

“Well you won’t sleep with me, obviously,” Mary said, just the tiniest sliver of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Something has to be done.” 

“I don’t see— I mean. He seemed--” 

“Look,” Mary said reasonably, “You’re unhappy, he’s unhappy, I’m— focused on the baby. I’ve got what I want… most of it, anyway. I’m grateful. Maybe you should talk to Sherlock alone.” 

She’s the mother of my child, she loves me, she has to love me… John’s hand began to clench. She’s trying to make up for—

STOP.

She did all of it for me—she shot—oh, Sherlock, oh God!

STOP.

Mary was giving him that odd look again. 

“John?” 

John’s fists were clenched so tightly, his nails were digging into his palms. He relaxed his hands painfully, took a deep breath, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Right.” He stood up from the table, hesitated and then leaned to give his wife a kiss on the cheek. “Maybe I’ll go round and see him. Talk it over with him, again.” 

Mary relaxed. “I think it’ll do you both some good, John. And…and this way, we can stay together, we can be a family.” She daintily popped a piece of toast in her mouth and chewed. John used to think it was adorable, the way she ate. Now, instead of her mouth, he saw a great black proboscis, sucking the all the life out of —-

STOP.

John turned his shudder into an exercise in neck-cracking. Joints popped satisfyingly, and it was almost worth it to watch Mary cringe. “Yes, you’re right.” John mustered a smile that felt hard, as if he were grimacing in pain. “On my way, then.” He turned to leave. Family. And Sherlock. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it? Isn’t it? 

“Oh, and John?” Mary said, “Don’t forget to take the nicotine patches I picked up for him, maybe he’ll stay off the cigarettes, this time.” 

John stopped to look at her. “Where are they?” This was the Mary that John had fallen in love with, right? Thoughtful Mary? Murderous Mar—

STOP!

Mary gestured behind her.“On the counter.” 

John snagged the package, noting that they were Sherlock’s usuals, even. Peace offering? “Right.” He carried the package with him, stuffing it deeply into his coat pocket as he left, shutting the door carefully behind him.

It hit him as soon as he closed the door; it intensified as he went down the steps; it almost overwhelmed him as he got on the Tube. 

 

He could breathe again.

 

****

TBC.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John ponders his situation, Sherlock, Mary and what a change in their relationship could mean.

By the time John finally reached the general vicinity of Baker Street, it was nearly noon. He’d taken the circuitous way there, disembarking from the Tube mere blocks away from his destination so that he could shelter in one of the rickety street cafes, nursing a latte, getting lost in his thoughts. 

He huddled in the shadows of one of the back booths, facing the entrance, always noting routes of escape. 

Here he was, on his way to —work out an arrangement, as Mary had called it, with the one person who he’d fallen for so hard that even the possibility of being allowed to touch, allowed to feel, it made his head spin. 

What did that even mean? He’d sleep with Sherlock, and not sleep with Mary, as he hadn’t been able to get it up for her in some time, anyway— and Mary seemed to be disinclined to sleep with him now that she had what she wanted. 

Mary’s sole focus these days was the baby. With her biological clock ticking, it seemed that she’d neglected to inform John that she’d quit taking any sort of birth control. John, who hadn’t wanted an unplanned pregnancy, had used condoms most of the time, and so he’d been floored, when at their wedding reception, Sherlock had accidentally made his final deduction of the evening. After the revelation that she wasn’t who she said she was, he’d examined his stash of Trojans in the back of the medicine cabinet. He’d found that each packet had tiny holes discreetly punched through. He hadn’t even had the will to call her on it. Just more lies, on top of more and more lies. But at least it made sense now that most of them had torn while he and Mary were caught up in the act. He’d thought it was just an excess of passion, having been alone for so long…

For more than a year, all he’d been able to think of was Sherlock; Sherlock and the love that had withered, dead and shriveled before it had even been given life to grow and flower. He’d thought Mary was going to save his life, turn it around— much as Sherlock had done all those years ago. What had happened instead was akin to having a great gaping hole punched through his chest, reminiscent of the catastrophic gunshot wound that pierced Sherlock’s, leaving him to bleed out, flatlining on the table, miraculously coming back to life only after the doctors and surgeons had walked away and turned off the lights.

It was better not to feel this...this pain. 

So he’d kept himself distant; terrified, if he was honest with himself, that he’d lose Sherlock again. Better to cleave to Mary, as fucked up as it was, at least he knew the truth, now, or at least as much of it as he could handle. 

Sherlock, bless him, had backed off and seemed to respect that John needed distance. John needed to keep everything separate. There were lines drawn, and John needed everything to stay between the lines. Nothing bleeding out, nothing making his life messier than it already was. Here, was Sherlock; and here, was Mary. And ne’er the twain should meet. 

Time went by. Mary’s belly swelled with life. John immersed himself in boring cases at the clinic, and could almost forget that he went to sleep in a suburban flat with a woman whose real name he did not know, and who was wanted by Very Dangerous People. On good days, he chose not to think about it, and it got easier and easier. Easy to let it slide.

Things were going well, when out of the blue, Mary got the idea to start spending time with Sherlock. That threw John badly, when she first mentioned it, because the first thing that rose up in his gut was a strong need to protect Sherlock…from Mary, from what she might do-- 

John couldn’t understand it. Yeah, sure, Mary and Sherlock went out of their way to play nice when he was around, and as far as he knew Sherlock had forgiven Mary for …nearly killing him… but it just didn’t make any sense. 

Surgery? John had been a trauma surgeon, he knew what bloody surgery was, and he knew what a kill shot was— just thinking about it was enough to get John clenching his teeth and fisting his hands into tight balls of fury. 

John needed to breathe or he was going to have a fucking coronary. His coffee was cold, and he got up, went to the counter and got another. Bringing it back to the booth, he tried to consider what to do. 

Mary’s suggestion of what she called a polyamorous relationship, an open relationship, had its benefits. Dutifully, John did a little Googling, and it seemed…viable. It had taken a while for John to seriously consider Mary’s proposal, but when he learned that she had no intention of slotting herself between John and Sherlock, he acquiesced; thinking that goddammit, at least there might be some happiness to be had after all. 

He and Sherlock could be together. Finally. But not completely. He would never be wholly Sherlock’s. Mary wouldn’t give him up, and he had a child on the way, and so couldn’t, wouldn’t leave her, for the sake of his daughter. 

But he didn’t love Mary anymore, and he knew he’d never loved her as much as he’d loved Sherlock, still loved Sherlock. 

Always Sherlock.

John didn’t think he’d ever felt so muddled and confused in his life. From the first time he’d met Sherlock in the Bart’s labs, he’d been constantly fighting a painful, acute attraction to the man-- and he’d done everything he could to resist it. Falling back on his strengths, he’d of course denied that attraction existed in the first place. He’d tried labeling it; chalking it up in his head to be a leftover taste for the forbidden, a remnant of his wilder days in the Army. He’d told himself it was just Sherlock’s charisma; his odd combination of personality quirks and features that made him simultaneously beautiful and ugly, he was fascinating.

Taking a careful sip of his scalding coffee, John recognized that he was stalling. It was only with extreme reluctance that he allowed himself to admit to himself the reasons why.

It had been so hard, when Sherlock had died, that John himself had nearly lost the will to live because he’d never told Sherlock how he felt. Not even once. He’d avoided it; he’d outright lied about it. Hell, he’d gone to great lengths to shut those feelings down cold. And Sherlock had gone to his grave never knowing how John felt. And the worst of it was that John knew, he absolutely knew that Sherlock had been in love with him for a long time, almost since the beginning. 

But, it took John forever to recognize it in Sherlock, let alone himself. Maybe it was because he was trying so hard not to notice, not to see it, not to feel. Maybe it was just fear. But he’d pretended that he and Sherlock were just mates, and even before Sherlock went away, John tried to distance himself. To compensate for the sheer power of those unwanted feelings, John became ever more critical of Sherlock, ever more remote. He’d told himself that it was better for Sherlock, he might be a genius, but he was a bloody bastard, and thus needed a firm hand to make him learn to be more human, instead of a heartless machine. 

Machine. 

He’d thought he had all the time in the world. 

John had to stop and take a long, slow breath. Another.

Even though he now knew that Sherlock was alive, and even though the very thought of how he’d been made a fool of filled him with a visceral, reflexive rage, he still had to stop, count his breaths, clench his fists—

God, he’d punched the daft idiot enough, hadn’t he? Sherlock hadn’t even tried to defend himself. Not once.

Sherlock was so different since he’d come back from what John had derisively labeled hide-and-go-seek— He seemed quieter, more vulnerable? It was as if the facade of arrogance had cracked, rent asunder, and more and more often what leaked out was the wounded, battered man beneath it all. God only knew what he’d actually been through in the past two years, and in his heart of hearts, John didn’t really want to know. 

He didn’t want to know.

It was all a matter of managing— hell, avoiding any more pain. If he understood— really understood--what hell Sherlock had been through, John might have to face some ugly truths about himself, and it would hurt. Badly. Or the raging fire of hatred and rage that filled him would boil over, and he wasn’t sure he could handle any more without taking out a fucking city street. 

His hands were shaking. This probably wasn’t a good time to go visit Sherlock. 

 

After the momentous, ill-fated visit a few days ago, John had let things settle awhile after they left, and a few days later texted Sherlock. He’d not received even a single reply.

Abruptly, he found himself firmly decided on his course. He nodded to himself, got up and left the cafe, headed down to 221B.

It was time to work this out, finally. 

 

TBC.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be so late with this chapter-- boy howdy, it was difficult to write, and I hope I did an okay job. Keep in mind that I don't have a beta, nor do I have a Brit-Picker; and am making this up as I go; while trying hard to mind things like continuity and structure, etc, . I would LOVE any constructive criticism, feedback, etc, and I adore comments, in general. 
> 
> A word about Mary- she's not a heroine in the story, she's a villain. My task is to not make her a one-dimensional villain, but a little closer to the sort that I tend to love--  
> I hope I'll be successful.
> 
>  
> 
> ***

The bright light streamed through Mycroft’s bedroom windows, bringing with it the unwelcome knowledge that Sherlock had gone. Mycroft jolted awake. A sense of emptiness, a fragmented hollowness immediately following the slamming of the kitchen door filled him with a sort of resigned dread.

He sat up, scrubbing a hand through his sparse hair. 

It had been only in the most exceedingly rare and fraught circumstances in their adult lives that a desperate need for comfort had outweighed the mutual distrust and animosity between Mycroft and his often fragile little brother. But last night, for the first time in many years, Mycroft had felt the need to offer it, and Sherlock had accepted willingly. 

It changed something. Healed something. 

It had begun to slowly, achingly fill what had become a great void, open and raw and yawning deep within Mycroft’s soul. It eased the relentless self-recrimination he’d felt while Sherlock had been on his years-long mission to take out Moriarty’s Web. 

He hadn’t been able to protect his brother, then. 

Mycroft had not been able to do that for a long, long time. He’d be damned if he didn’t do it now. 

He got up, tiredly drew on his dressing gown, and padded down the hall to the suite he had mentally designated as Sherlock’s. Of course, that room had been Sherlock’s since his days at University, his days in rehab, his day of breaking in to get clothes, food and money— and it had become his refuge when the estrangement from John Watson became too much.

Sherlock had PTSD, and Mycroft knew that it made him even more wildly erratic and unpredictable, than his days as a drug addled street rat in London. Mycroft knew that Sherlock had been severely traumatized; the least of what had happened to him had occurred in Serbia. Mycroft’s sources had confirmed that Sherlock had been the victim of at least one brutal serial rape, had had a more than a few broken bones and more than one life-threatening injury. It was understandable that he’d picked up his drug habit again; he was obviously self-medicating. But Mycroft had Bill Wiggins in place, if Sherlock should try to procure drugs. He’d also set up a watch on Sherlock’s other known bolt-holes, so he wasn’t excessively worried. 

Now, Mycroft threw open the door, barely needing to look; Sherlock had indeed vanished, probably retreating back to Baker Street. 

Walking back to his bedroom, Mycroft fished out his mobile from his pocket, checking for messages. None. He punched in a code checking the video feed at Baker Street. Nothing. So, Sherlock wasn’t at home, at least not yet. But Mycroft hesitated to call. Knowing his brother, Sherlock would be tetchy after the night’s events. Maybe it was best to let him settle a bit, regain his equilibrium before approaching him again. 

And Mycroft was sore and tired, so tired. He’d gotten almost no sleep, not since leaving Sherlock in a drugged slumber in the wee hours after his breakdown. 

It was a little past noon. Mycroft squared his shoulders, internally preparing for the day’s hunting expedition. 

He rang Anthea.

“Mr. Holmes?” 

“Progress on my brother’s shooter?”

“We have the files from the Police and the Ballistics on the bullet retrieved from Sherlock’s wound. Badly damaged. It was a .380 ACP hollow-point shell— the bullet flattened on impact; caused Sherlock a lot of damage. Fired at a range of six feet with a suppressor.”

“Sig P-232?” 

“Yes, sir. The preferred murder weapon of a professional. So, we’re looking for a rogue.”

“So probably, not a hit on Sherlock, it’s far more likely that he just got in the way. How surprising. Yet, the assassin left his target, Mr. Magnussen alive. Intriguing. And I understand that nearly all of the evidence has gone missing. Pray tell, how did that happen?” 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade was helpful in uncovering the theft; apparently, there was a problem with chain of evidence.” 

“CCTV footage? Internal camera footage in Magnussen’s offices?”

“Apparently, all of the evidence; the footage, and even shell casings got…lost, sir. No hair or fibers other than Sherlock’s, Magnussen’s and John’s. No blood spatter to speak of.” 

“Sanitized, then. Someone with a lot of clout buried it.” Mycroft could actually hear Anthea wincing over the phone. He sighed, heavily. “There’s another agency involved in this.” Mycroft said, darkly. 

“According to Detective Inspector Lestrade and our other operatives at the Met, there was nothing to find. Lestrade is completely baffled. Apoplectic, actually. He also expressed some concerns about John Watson; it seems he was less than forthcoming about any information regarding the shooting. He’s worried about everything from shock to coercion.”

“But Watson wasn’t even in the room, according to his statement.” 

“Lestrade seems to think that he and Sherlock are hiding something. Protecting someone.” 

“Hmmmmn. Wonder who that might be.” Mycroft said, sitting on the edge of his bed, reaching for the tablet on his bedside table. He opened the appropriate program, and began to scroll through files. “Has there been any more information that you could find regarding Mrs. Watson? It’s very curious that her name was the first word that Sherlock uttered upon waking, according to our agent at the Royal London. Not John, but Mary, who is proving to be quite the unknown quantity. My brother seems to trust her— but, there’s something rather astucious about her. What do we know?” He opened a photo file. Mary Elizabeth Watson. Lovely woman seemed almost tailor-made for John, with her blonde hair, and kind eyes, and a certain moxie in the quirk of her smile.

 

Mycroft could hear Anthea clicking on her keyboard. “Nothing—”, she said, “-though, we do know she’s using an assumed identity, dating back approximately five years. Her identity was assumed from a stillborn child, born 1972. Facial recognition software hasn’t produced a hit. Fingerprints are altered. No DNA results, either.” 

“So, whoever Mrs. Watson was, any and all records of her prior existence were extensively cleaned by someone with a lot of reach. Interesting that she would choose to be a nurse. Witness Protection scheme? Or something more nefarious?” 

“It’s possible. No real way to tell, at present. We’re checking.” 

“It may be time to meet the good Doctor’s wife.”

“Yes, sir. When?” 

“Tomorrow, I think. 4PM. I think I’m in the mood for good, hearty, Italian cuisine. Our man Angelo? ”

“I’ll set it up, sir.”

Mycroft disconnected the call, and ambled into his study. He stopped, completely taken off guard. There on the carpet lay Sherlock’s prized Belstaff coat. The coat he’d never go anywhere without.

The alarm bells started ringing. 

 

***

TBC

AUTHOR'S NOTE;  
I want to give a thousand thank you's to the following folks, whose work has made my research much easier by providing these resources: 

Let's play murder, by cookieswillcrumble  
http://archiveofourown.org/works/1235479/chapters/2535226

 

Wytchblood , for her revelations about the gun used, 

and Ariane DeVere, for the extensive transcripts. http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: non-explicit sex, Johnlock, mentions of past rape and trauma. Serious angst. 
> 
> I am so thrilled folks have been reading this-- as always, I adore feedback, concrit, etc. Thanks, y'all for reading! :-)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****

As bright as the day was out of doors, the hallway at 221B was dark and gloomy. It felt empty and disused. Using his own key, John had slipped inside and pounded up the stairs, the only real thought in his head being how much he’d missed the place, how much it still felt like home. 

And how desperately he needed to see Sherlock. 

He arrived at the landing at the top and had to take a moment to consider what he was doing. Maybe, if it were just them, just John and Sherlock— without Mary, this would go better. 

All he knew was that he couldn’t live without Sherlock, not anymore. He needed him more than the danger, more than the excitement. Sherlock had tried to tell him that now that John had Mary, he had his danger fix in her, as he called it; but what Sherlock didn’t seem to understand was that it wasn’t about the need for dangerous situations and people. It never had been. That was why it had hurt so much when Sherlock had asserted that John had a need for dangerous people, that he chose them; he chose Mary. 

That wasn’t the case at all. Or at least not all of it--

It was about Sherlock himself. 

It had always been Sherlock, if John was honest with himself. He intended to stay with Mary, of course—-for the child. But his heart would belong to Sherlock. That is, if things went well between the two of them, this afternoon. 

Surely, Sherlock could understand that. He steeled himself. 

Once more, unto the breach…

The door to the flat wasn’t locked, and John pushed his way in. “Sherlock?” No answer. He checked the kitchen first, in case Sherlock was concentrating on some experiment or at the microscope. But the flat was fairly dark, all the drapes were closed. The air was a little musty, as if no-one had really been there for days. Doubt began to creep in, and John went into the living room. 

There he was, huddled on the old leather couch in a fetal position, facing the back as if he’d fallen asleep in a snit; he was clad in gray pajama bottoms and his shabbiest navy dressing gown, and John thought he’d never seen anything more perfect.

John walked over, and crouched down near Sherlock’s head. “Sherlock?” John tried again. Still no response. John laid a careful hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and shook him gently. 

“Mmmnn…” Sherlock moaned softly, shifting. John shook him again, and this time, Sherlock slowly turned over. “John.” His eyes cracked open a little, but John could see how hazy they were. There was something almost childlike about him like this, warm, pliable, sweet. But he seemed to be having so much difficulty waking…

A frisson of fear went down John’s spine. Was Sherlock high? Inwardly cursing, John shook him again. “ Oi, Sherlock. You alright?”

“Not high.” Sherlock managed to look indignant and chagrined all at the same time. “Well, yes, high, obviously, but it’s not what you think.” He scrubbed his hands through his curls, still waking up by inches. 

John fought back the need to start forcibly examine Sherlock’s arms for tiny needle marks and bruises. He took a deep breath instead; unclenched and flexed his hands. “What did you take?”

Sitting up slowly, Sherlock gestured halfheartedly at the coffee table. 

John hurriedly scanned the cluttered surface for whatever drug paraphernalia Sherlock might be talking about. Instead of spent syringes and vials, to his great relief, he found a couple of prescription bottles, both written for W.Sherlock.S.Holmes, one for severe anxiety and the other, a sleep aid. 

Panic attacks? John felt a little shocked. How had he not known that? “You know you shouldn’t take these together.” He said perfunctorily.

Sherlock seemed a little more with it, lucid. “I needed them. I can’t sleep otherwise.” 

“Does your brother know?” John got off the floor, and instead, sat on the couch with Sherlock, keeping a comfortable between them. He was pleased when Sherlock adjusted his position to sit facing John. 

“Who do you suppose procured them for me?” Sherlock yawned. “Better than the alternative, yes?”

Yes, I suppose. Oh.” John reached into his coat and brought out the wrapped package of nicotine patches. “Mary sent these for you. Keep you off the cigarettes.” He laid it down on the table. 

“I haven’t been smoking--” Sherlock viewed the package with interest, lips curling into a small, impish smile. “—much.” 

“That’s good.” John said. “Good.” He flexed his hands, wishing for something to do with them. “Are you up for tea?” 

“That would be errr...good.” Sherlock’s eyes flitted over John’s face, and John wondered if he’d deduced John’s purpose for his visit. 

“Right, then.” John hauled himself up off the couch and into the kitchen, finding everything more or less in order. It was fairly short work; there was even milk in the fridge. When he returned to the sitting room with two steaming cups of Darjeeling, Sherlock looked a little sharper. He cleared a little space on the coffee table, and John set the mugs down. He gave “his” chair a passing glance, but decided once more to sit beside Sherlock on the couch.

He faced Sherlock.”So, why I’m here.” 

“Yes?” Sherlock’s expression was wary, guarded. 

“I—” John cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize. What Mary and I — what we sprung on you— I know, it wasn’t on. I just wanted to tell you I understand what you were trying to say.”

Sherlock nodded, clearly unsure of what response to give. He bit his bottom lip, and John found that so endearing; that slightly lost, open expression on Sherlock’s face, always only for him. 

John took a deep breath; let it out in a gusty sigh. He took Sherlock’s hands in his own, half expecting Sherlock to pull away. 

Sherlock tensed a little, but his eyes widened, his lips parted just a little. “John?”

“You know how I feel about you. You’ve always known, Sherlock.” 

“I- I wasn’t sure.” Sherlock murmured, and dipped his head. Embarrassment? Bashfulness? Uncertainty, surely. God forbid. John couldn’t let that stand. It almost physically hurt to know that Sherlock was not sure of John’s intentions. 

“I don’t think I can live without you.” John slid his hand alongside Sherlock’s face, tipping it back up so that he could gaze into those bewitching eyes. “It almost killed me to lose you before… when you were gone…” 

“I’m so sorry, John.” Sherlock looked miserable. “I know it’ll never be enough…”

“I am, too.” John took one of Sherlock’s hands, long and graceful, and brought it to his lips, palm up, to kiss. “But, it is enough. It has to be. Maybe it’s time to move past this.” 

“Do you— do you mean it?” Sherlock looked so hopeful that John thought his heart would break. 

John nodded.” Yes. I truly mean it. I want to move on. With you.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, as if he sought to discern the truth of what John was telling him. “Meant what I said. Before. I can’t share you.”

John nodded. “I know. And I’m good with that. It’s fine. My heart, Sherlock, belongs to you alone.”

John took Sherlock’s head in both hands and drew him down for a kiss, soft and chaste. Then another, slowly teasing those plump lips open, slipping his tongue between them, and slowly drawing away. 

Sherlock’s eyes had fluttered shut, his body gone limp and pliant against the cushions. John moved over him, suddenly blazing with desire, pressing Sherlock down, to lave the strong column of his neck with his tongue, interspersed with sweet, soft kisses. 

Sherlock let out a deep groan, and John’s inner fire, banked by the need to go slowly, roared back to life. He moved one hand down Sherlock’s torso to find the hem of the ratty t-shirt and slide his hand underneath, to caress and knead that wealth of creamy, soft skin. 

Sherlock’s thighs slowly slid apart, and John eagerly slotted himself between them. He fumbled his own fly open, as Sherlock slid his own pajamas down, to get caught and tangled underneath him. John reared up to work them out from under Sherlock, and he flung them away. Sherlock undulated under John, panting, and John answered by taking both their hard lengths in a hand, hastily licked for slick.

Sherlock cried out, bucking under John’s hand. He reached up, drawing John down into a blistering kiss. John knew he wasn’t going to last long, and by the sound of it, neither would Sherlock. 

He pressed into Sherlock harder, rutting, pinning him down—

“Don’t—” Sherlock went rigid beneath him suddenly, and John’s thrusts went into overdrive.

“—stop—”

John moved his fist around them frantically, using all his weight to pin Sherlock to the couch—

“John!”

“Don’t--”Sherlock gasped, and John, went rigid, as lightning shot through his spine.

Everything whited out into a cacophony of flashing, disjointed, jerking limbs and breaths.

The hot brightness in John’s head slowly dimmed to soothing warmth. John felt so safe. So loved. He had come home. Sherlock’s face was buried in John’s shoulder. 

Sherlock was shaking violently. 

“Love?” John nuzzled Sherlock’s curls, kissed the side of his face, vaguely worried.

Sherlock was crying, his breath hitching in an effort to control it. 

“Sherlock?” 

“It’s my fault— my fault—”, Sherlock chanted.

“What? Oh, God--” John sat up quickly, heart pounding. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you? Oh, God, Sherlock--”

“I can’t John, I tried--” Sherlock wept openly now, turning away from John, snatching his discarded dressing gown to wrap around himself tightly. “I tried. I thought I could …I thought… because it’s you... I tried—”

“What—’ John started, “Sherlock, what did I do?” He desperately wanted to put his arms around Sherlock and comfort him, but…

“It wasn’t you,John, “Sherlock choked, “--it wasn’t you… The Baron… he’s ruined me.” Sinking down to the floor in a dejected heap, Sherlock wouldn’t meet John’s gaze. “—ruined me. I thought I could—”

“Baron?” John approached Sherlock slowly. “Baron, Sherlock? What happened to you?”

Sherlock’s trembling only seemed to increase, and he wrapped his arms tightly around himself in a defensive posture, rocking back and forth. “I was—’ Sherlock gasped for air, “his prisoner. He. raped. Me. Repeatedly.” He finally met John’s eyes, and he looked so bereft, so utterly defeated John wanted to howl with anguish. 

Sherlock’s eyes skittered away, ashamed. “Stupid, stupid, I was so—”

John felt hot, and then cold. He heard it again, Sherlock, asking him to stop. He’d never even asked him what had happened to him while he was away. All the clues were there. The anti-anxiety meds, PTSD symptoms…he felt as if a fist had wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed it in viselike grip. He couldn’t breathe. 

The truth hammered at him.

I raped him. 

Oh my god, I raped him, too, John’s mind shrieked madly at him. I deserve to be with a psychopath. Because I’m one, too. 

 

I raped Sherlock--

 

Tears streamed down John’s cheeks as he snatched his coat, dashing out the door--

 

“John, no!” he heard Sherlock call him, sounding anguished. “John— it’s not your fault—”

 

John slammed the door behind him, fairly flying down the rickety steps, running from the crippling guilt. 

 

 

****

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say how very touched I am that people have been reading and commenting on this, my first fic in this fandom, and the first fic I've written in years. 
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback, and of course, I can use lots more! :-)
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter; if you are wedded to a pro-Mary stance, this might not be the fic for you. (I'm trying to make it clear, because I know just how contentious that subject can be. At the same time, I'm going to try not to be completely one-dimensional in the way I handle her character-- but that's coming up a bit later. Try to keep in mind that I'm plotting by the seat of my pants, but there's a definite place this story is going. I hope you enjoy it, I hope to learn something by doing it. :-)
> 
> Thanks again, for reading!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ***

Sherlock stared in abject horror as John fled, unwilling to listen, unwilling to hear him out. It hadn’t been John’s fault, not his fault! Sherlock had cocked this up, and he had no idea how to fix it. Trembling, he slowly moved to the door, shut it, and then leaned against it, utterly wrecked, chest hurting with the force of his sobbing. He had to get control. He dragged a hand across his face, dashing away the tears, and steadily tried to take some deep breaths. 

Think!

He raised a hand, glaring at how violently it shook, and with the last of his strength, tottered unsteadily back to the sitting room to collapse in his chair.  
Sherlock buried his head in his shaking hands. Why couldn’t he be ordinary, normal? Why did he have to be the one who ruined everything? He’d been told often enough how unlovable he was, and now, when the one person who mattered finally reached out to him, he destroyed that too, because that’s what he did, and with that action, he’d lost whatever tenuous measure of control over his feelings he’d ever had. He thought he was going to be sick. 

 

This was getting him nowhere. Useless and stupid. Sherlock clenched his right hand into a fist and brutally slammed it into his chest, into the healed flesh where he’d been shot; once, twice. Agony stabbed through him, nearly doubling him over. It was a crude, but effective reminder. This is what happened when he tried to open it. His heart. It hurt. It debilitated him. 

He wasn’t fit for John, he knew that. He could only destroy him if he stayed. It was time to do whatever was necessary to get Mycroft’s assistance on getting him out of the country— preferably on a permanent mission. 

But he could not leave until John was safe, and that meant dealing with the conundrum of Mary.

Mary. 

Sherlock had protected her, lied for her— and had been nonplussed that John, a doctor, for God’s sake, had bought the ridiculous fiction that Mary had performed “surgery” with a hollow point round. It had been the only thing Sherlock could think of at the time. Fortunately, for John, he’d accepted it as a dubious truth, because it was Sherlock who had told him. 

If John hadn’t believed, if he hadn’t forgiven her, Mary quite likely would have killed them both.

Mary had quite intentionally attempted to kill Sherlock. She’d had absolutely no compunction about shooting him, nor the intention of leaving him alive, and the look in her eyes, when he’d offered his assistance had been annoyed, contemptuous, as if she saw him as a cockroach she’d squashed, and now scraped off her shoe. He’d been an inconvenience, nothing more. 

It had been when she had shot him, that Sherlock realized the truth about her. What she was. How very dangerous she was. And who she had to have been.

She’d shown up in his hospital room, when he’d been barely conscious, and in a chilling, sing-song voice, attempted to intimidate him into not telling John. And he’d known then that in order to protect John, he’d have to lie to him again, and this time, John might never forgive him. 

Sherlock, knowing just how badly John was hurting, also knew his weakness; he would grasp at anything that would make his life make sense. Anything at all, no matter how ludicrous. John was just that broken, and it was all Sherlock’s fault. 

So a frankly ridiculous solution was implemented, and a delicate truce established, all hinging on John’s ability to stay with the wife whose name he did not know, and Sherlock’s ability to convince Mary that yes, he really was that damaged; he’d do anything for John’s happiness. 

Well, maybe that part was actually true. 

That tenuous armistice had also as its very unstable foundation, Mary’s love for John. Well, she called it love— Sherlock named it as obsession. 

Love— he wasn’t prepared to believe that she was capable of that emotion, for she was a true, intelligent psychopath.

Sherlock didn’t hold that against her, she was clever, personable, competent; a veritable chameleon; she was reliably what she needed to be in order to achieve her ends. She wasn’t indiscriminately homicidal. In some ways, Sherlock understood her. He’d thought at one time, that they could even be friends, if only for John’s sake. After all, he’d thought himself much the same as her. And he hadn’t really learned how to think differently about himself until he’d met John. John had brought that sense of someone else in Sherlock’s life being so much more important to him than anything else in the world— as vital, as necessary as air— that Sherlock’s internal picture of himself had shattered, leaving him changed forever. 

He could lie to everyone else about the absence of his heart— but in the end, Moriarty had achieved his goal. He’d shown Sherlock his heart, and burned it to ashes. 

Mary would never experience that feeling, her brain simply wasn’t wired that way, and in some ways, Sherlock fiercely envied her that. She didn’t have that that need to put someone else’s needs before her own, and now that her enemies drew closer, and now that Sherlock had tipped his hand, revealed his own weakness, and exposed John’s turmoil — she would make a move. 

And that could endanger the child. John’s daughter.

Worse, she might just decide to cut her losses and flee. She could kill John. That could not happen, not to the child, not to John, so Sherlock would have to find a way to make sure she had protection he could not provide, without tipping her off, or alerting certain parties who would make sure she was handed over to authorities that would see her imprisoned for life or dead. 

The discipline of objectively analyzing a complex problem had calmed and restored Sherlock somewhat; it took him back to that still, safe place within; that place where he could see all the variables laid out before him like shining constellations in the night sky.

And once he solved the problem, he could leave— and let John and his daughter get on with their lives. 

He was going to have to fix things with John, first. That much was clear.

He picked up his phone from the coffee table, to send a text.

Sherlock’s phone rang seconds later. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answered.

 

**

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a doozy to write. Not sure I'm entirely happy with it, but here goes.  
> Please let me know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
>  
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> ****

Lestrade had rushed over to 221B, this time mercifully without calling in the CO19 Force Firearms Unit, or the SO18 Aviation Security, as he had the last time Sherlock had texted with a plea for help. The only reason his career hadn’t taken a hit had been the influence of Mycroft; the Home Office had fudged the report, saying the massive movement of deadly force that Lestrade had mobilized had been for a drill. No-one at the Yard had really bought that hastily concocted explanation, and Donovan had actually had lobbed a few acidic comments in Lestrade’s direction after the incident. Lestrade had neither confirmed nor denied her accusations that once again, he’d become the puppet of Sherlock Bloody Holmes. 

This time, Sherlock had done the unthinkable; he’d called, not texted. Hence, the beak-neck speed in getting there. 

Arriving at the flat, he swung open the door and strode into the sitting room. “Sherlock, “, he called, eyes adjusting to the gloom. “What’s going on?” 

It took only the briefest of glances for Lestrade to see through Sherlock’s brittle, icy facade; waking within him a protective sense of alarm. He’d not seen Sherlock this close to a breakdown since his darkest period as an addict, struggling to get clean. 

“Lestrade.” Sherlock sat in his chair, clutching the armrests with clenched fingers, barely holding himself together. “I think I’ve made a grave mistake.” 

Sherlock’s voice sounded raw, and Lestrade realized that he had to have been crying, Lestrade noted with alarm. The slightly swollen and reddened eyes confirmed it. “Does this have to do with John?” He came a little closer. Sherlock looked diminished, wounded. “He didn’t hit you again, did he?” he asked, cautiously.

“No,” Sherlock flared into irritability. “Nothing like that.”, he snapped, without any real heat behind it, obviously trying to cover his discomfort. He lifted his chin. “He’s not abusive.” 

Lestrade thought differently, but only said, “What is it, then?”

Sherlock drooped, his eyes drifting towards the floor. “I may have given—“, his voice wavered, “I believe I gave him the wrong impression—we—I—“

“What exactly happened? Between you and John?” 

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip, avoiding Lestrade’s gaze. 

Lestrade tried again. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself. “We were… intimate,” he said with great precision and dignity. 

That bad. Lestrade slowly drew nearer to the stricken detective. “Oh, Sherlock.” 

“I’m an idiot. Stupid. I panicked.”

“What, why? Did he hurt you?” Lestrade felt the rush of protectiveness rise up in him like a wave, threatening to drown him. Had John forced Sherlock? Would he? John had been so erratic, particularly after Sherlock’s return; his anger, always close to the surface, was on a hair trigger; he seemed always ready to fight. It wouldn’t be the first time his rage had gotten the better of him and Sherlock had paid the price. He knew John had his reasons, God knew he did; Lestrade understood John’s sense of betrayal that Sherlock had left him for two years the way he did, and even though he’d eventually agreed to forgive Sherlock, Lestrade knew by John’s continued tendency to pound on Sherlock, that he really hadn’t moved past it. 

It had become necessary for Lestrade to intervene, not that long ago. He’d invited John out for a pint, and talked with him about it, man to man. It was then that he realized just how broken John truly was. Lestrade sank down onto the couch. Two horribly wounded people. Marriage apparently, hadn’t helped John at all, either. 

“Lestrade, I –” Sherlock began, “some… bad things happened to me when I was away. I assumed that Mycroft told you?”

“You assumed wrong, then, “Lestrade said carefully, “your brother doesn’t share everything with me, you know that. He respects your privacy more than you might think.”

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh. “Right. With the cameras and mics installed in the flat. I’m sure he knows what transpired this afternoon.” 

Lestrade couldn’t think of anything to say to that. “So, between you and John—that’s been a long time coming.”

Sherlock looked briefly scandalized, then ashamed. 

Lestrade suppressed a grimace. “What about his wife?”

Sherlock’s face seemed to shutter closed. “What about Mary? He’s not in love with her.”

Well, that’s interesting. “Did he say that?”

Sherlock drew himself up primly. “He knows I won’t— I cannot-- be with him, if he maintains a sexual relationship with her. We’ve established this, very clearly.” 

Sherlock seemed to grow graver, still. “But I think I – he thinks he did something wrong, and he left and I can’t tell him, I can’t get him to hear me—“

“Slow down, sunshine, what?” Lestrade, prodded. “What could have gone so wrong—?”

“He thinks he raped me.”

Shit. Lestrade’s heart sank. He had to ask. “Sherlock, are you so sure he didn’t?”

“I told you, he’s not abusive. And he- he didn’t. As I said, I panicked.”

“Did you ask him to stop?”

"You’re not listening to me, Lestrade. I asked, but it was because I... I was overcome— flashbacks--”

“But nothing, Sherlock, you know better than this!”

“I led him on.” 

“That’s not an excuse.” 

“He didn’t mean it. I wasn’t clear. It just happened, Lestrade. It’s not his fault.” 

“Where is he now?”

Sherlock fluttered his hands, manic with stress, finally bringing them both up to brutally fist them in his hair, yanking savagely. “I don’t know, I don’t know. He left—“. 

“Shhhh—”, Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s hands, gently forcing them down to his sides. “He left you like this?” 

“Stop! Stop blaming him!” Sherlock shrieked, wrenching himself out of his chair, throwing himself onto the couch. As soon as his back met the cushions, he recoiled violently, shooting back up and over to perch on the edge of his chair. His hands went back to pull at his hair again, stopped, fell loosely to his lap, where they lay, twisting the fabric of his dressing gown. “Help me find him,” he whispered, harshly.

“That’s a tall order.” Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Maybe it’s best to let it lie for a little while, let him calm down.”

“He’s not safe.” Fear pinched Sherlock’s brow, it made him look dangerous.

Shit, Lestrade thought, mentally picturing a crime scene, a body…“What do you mean? You don’t think he’d hurt himself, do you?”

“Nononononono—-You don’t understand, Lestrade,” Sherlock said miserably, “I let him stay with —”, he broke off abruptly. “-- and now I’ve put him in this impossible position——it’s why I didn’t want to do this with him, not now—-not when it’s so dangerous—”, and he was up again, pacing in his agitation.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade reached out to try to still the detective, again, Sherlock dodged his grasp. “Stop!” he said, frustrated. 

Sherlock jerked to a halt, eyes wide. 

“You’re not making any bloody sense.” Lestrade tried and failed to keep from shouting, wincing internally when Sherlock flinched. “Sorry, lad.” He tried again, lowering his voice. “In danger? From who?”

Sherlock voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t tell you that. It’s too dangerous.”

“For John?” Lestrade asked, exasperated. “Does he know?”

“Yes. Yes, he knows. Please, Greg--”

Lestrade stared at Sherlock in amazement which quickly turned to trepidation. He got the name right. It really was that serious.

“Please find him.” Sherlock said through clenched teeth; he looked so heartbreakingly sad, that Lestrade was reminded once again of the young, addicted genius he’d met and taken under his wing, so many years ago. 

“Are you going to be alright?” Lestrade asked.”You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Why did he run, then?”

“I think I scared him. I made him think he’d—” Sherlock wrapped both arms around himself tightly. “I made him think he’d done something wrong. Because I. I panicked. I thought he was the Baron.”

“Baron?”

“One of Moriarty’s Generals. I did something unutterably stupid. I was captured, and I’ve not quite recovered from the repercussions of that stupidity.” 

Oh, God. Lestrade took a deep breath, needing to be sure, hating to ask this question. “Sherlock. Were you raped?”

Sherlock answered only with a curt nod. 

“I’m so sorry, son.”

“It’s done. It’s over.” Sherlock got to his feet shakily and Lestrade stood with him. 

“Right, “Lestrade said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Please, Lestrade. I have to fix this.” Sherlock said, quietly. 

Lestrade nodded sadly, and left, shutting the door softly behind him. 

 

**

 

As Lestrade was getting into his car, it hit him: if Sherlock hadn’t been so unraveled, he might have been able to cover his unease about Mary. As rattled as Sherlock had been, he might as well have drawn a big glowing circle around the woman, with an arrow saying, “investigate.” After he found John— and gave him a good talking to— running out on Sherlock like that? Really? After he tracked him down, he was going to have to start looking into Mary. 

And that meant that, as much as he hated betraying Sherlock’s trust, he was going to have to speak to Mycroft. 

 

**

 

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for being so late publishing this chapter --but I completely re-structured the story I've been writing ( I actually **had plotted things out***, but it wasn't apparent--) and did some serious rewriting. As I have no Beta, I cannot vouch for the quality of this chapter, but I gave it my best shot. Please feel free to give me pointers on what I can do to make this a better story. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
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> ***

John barreled down the street, feet pounding hard concrete, heart pounding faster and faster.

 

Everything blurred by at lightning speed, shops, cars, people; John ran from 221B as if running from the snapping jaws of hell. Shadows jolted and jostled him on his path, and he felt a twinge in his left knee. He kept running. 

 

He was fleeing his own vicious, inner demons, he knew that. It was that part of him that had pushed ahead and –

 

He didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to hear what was going on in his head. 

 

I took what I wanted...

 

“John!” Sherlock’s face, terrified…

 

He crashed into someone, and fell, the pavement ripping at his palms. 

 

“Stop—John—stop,” Sherlock, pushing John away, anguished--

 

“Oi,” someone was shouting at him. "Slow down, you bastard," but John scooted away, lurching to his feet to stagger across the street. 

 

“John— no!” Sherlock, weeping.

 

“Oh, God—“ John gasped, and cut to the left. Horns blared, and he had a sense of narrowly skirting the bonnet of a car. He pelted across an expanse of asphalt, running towards shadows. 

 

Trees? Woods? 

 

Where was he running to? 

 

Abruptly, there was turf under his feet. The park. 

 

He slowed down to a wobbly jog, then finally stopped, bent over with his hands on his knees, sucking in great gulps of air. He couldn’t get a full breath, he couldn’t slow it down. What had he done? 

 

What the Hell had he just done? 

 

Behind tightly closed eyes, he was buffeted by dark images of himself, of Sherlock’s terror, as he remembered. All he’d wanted to do was to love Sherlock. He’d wanted it for so long. How had this happened? How could this have possibly...

 

John dropped to a crouch, and then onto his rump in the wet grass. He began to shiver, he hadn’t worn his coat, and though it was unseasonably warm, it was still January. His breath puffed out in front of him fitfully as he tried to control his breathing, wrapping both arms around him. 

 

Eventually, cold and fatigue slowed the maelstrom of thoughts whirling around in John’s mind enough that he finally could sift back through memories as sharp and painful as shards of glass. 

 

It came to him, as he began to shiver, the sound of Sherlock’s desperate cries for John not to leave, that it hadn’t been his fault. John hadn’t really done anything worse than be unaware of Sherlock’s prior trauma. He would have been aware, would have taken it slowly, if only he’d known. 

 

John knew what it must have cost Sherlock to tell him the truth about his capture and rape. He thought he understood why Sherlock hadn’t said anything before. His pride. His inability to trust, even trust John. A bitter little voice still whispered spitefully, just like he didn’t trust you enough to tell you he was alive, didn’t trust you enough to take you with him, and John tamped it down, more or less successfully. 

 

He knew he was going to have to go back to the flat, back to Sherlock. John needed to repair the damage he’d done by running.

 

What had happened to Sherlock while he was away? What had he endured?

 

John flushed with shame; he’d never asked. He’d punched Sherlock a few times, okay, more than a few times, and then… nothing. Sherlock had apologized repeatedly, and John had discounted it, willfully choosing to believe that Sherlock was incapable of acting like a real human being, that he had feelings… he knew now, that he’d been frantically attempting to ignore his own feelings for Sherlock, that overwhelming sense of joy so painfully intertwined with the feeling of coming back to life again. 

 

No-one had been able to do that for him, not even Mary. She’d been a pitiful attempt at having a normal life. A normal life John didn’t want. 

 

He had no idea what he was going to do. 

 

What was he going to do about Mary, about the baby? He couldn’t take the chance that she'd go after Sherlock again, this time, she would kill him, and she’d said this—casually, just like she was ordering takeout, or organizing dinner party- she’d actually said it to John during one of their rows, and it had shocked John into silence and complicity. 

 

And John couldn’t lose Sherlock, not ever again. The thought that he’d damaged the fragile bond between them, by hurting Sherlock accidentally or not; it made bile rise up in his throat, burning like acid. He swallowed rapidly, struggling not to lose the inadequate breakfast he’d had. 

 

He needed help. He needed information. 

 

For once, John thought grimly, just once, he wanted to be fully fucking informed about what was going on with Sherlock. 

 

He rubbed his hands briskly over his upper arms, stood up and began walking. 

 

John wanted answers, and he knew where to get them. Marching out of the park, John strode to the curb and hailed a cab. A Black Cab pulled over, and he clambered into the back. “Diogenes Club”. 

 

**

 

In the dark, featureless office in the basement of the Diogenes Club, sitting behind an ugly desk piled with files and paperwork, Mycroft disconnected Lestrade’s call with hands trembling with rage. He set the mobile down, picking up his teacup to sip with a moue of distaste; it had long gone tepid. 

 

Lestrade had alerted Mycroft to the dire reality of Sherlock’s situation with an admirable circumspection and lack of tedious and sentimental embellishment. Mycroft had been busy attempting to dig through decades of layered obfuscations of Mary Morstan’s prior identity to no avail. Her past has been so thoroughly expunged, it fairly screamed government intervention. But which one? Russia? The Serbs? Or maybe something more sinister, with more resources...

 

Because he’d been so preoccupied, he’d not been able to keep watch over his brother. Lestrade had recently given him an earful about that anyway, disliking Mycroft’s “spying” on Sherlock, as he’d put it. Mycroft supposed that possibly, subconsciously, a part of him wanted, needed to give his brother the freedom, the trust he’d most certainly earned during his time away. Sherlock had proved himself, over and over again. But it was so hard to let go, to resist the imperative to protect. And now, with John Watson stupidly and wantonly destroying any equilibrium Sherlock had managed to regain, it was going to become necessary to keep an even closer watch on Sherlock’s flat. Mycroft felt as if he was drowning in his own depthless sea of deception, never-mind that he told himself that it was for Sherlock’s safety and well-being. 

 

Mycroft heaved a sigh, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Worrying about the effects of his surveillance did no good; he needed to get through the current crisis first. But for a moment, he wondered what would happen if he just simply… talked…to Sherlock, talked to John, instead of trying to maneuver them both into what he thought were better , healthier scenarios. 

 

Maybe at one time, he’d fooled himself into believing that his own motives were purely altruistic, but now he could admit, at least to himself that they never had been. Sherlock was far too important a resource to the Crown’s interests. He was a weapon, and had nearly been shattered during his last mission. 

 

A soft knock at the door jolted Mycroft out of his introspection. He looked up to see Anthea poke her head through the doorway. He nodded to her and she stepped in quickly and shut the door behind her. “John Watson is here, “ she said without preamble. “He’s making quite fuss upstairs, demanding to see you.” 

 

Mycroft smirked, predatory with anticipation. “Have him escorted in. Make an impression.”

 

Anthea’s wolfish grin matched his own. 

 

**

 

John reminded himself to take deep breaths as he swiveled his head around to stare at the black-suited goons on either side of him. “Doctor Watson,” one of the goons, huge, bulky and blond, bristling with barely hidden weaponry gestured with a huge, well manicure paw, “-come with us, please.” 

 

Sneering at Mycroft’s heavy-handedness, John fought back the urge to throw one arm up in an ironic Nazi salute, gave the two men his most dangerous tight-lipped smile. “Right. Alright, Axel,” he said to the blond, vaguely disappointed when he didn’t react. “Take me to him, then.” 

 

Axel led, with John following, and the other goon bringing up the rear as they marched through the labyrinthine corridors, down to a service lift. 

 

When they reached the basement floor, the lift doors swished open reminding John of something out of the opening sequence to “Get Smart”, and he couldn’t control a snicker. The darker goon, (funny, he was so nondescript as to appear almost null) gave John an indecipherable stare and led the way. John was nonplussed when upon seeing the back end of the goon, it turned out that the goon was a woman. (He’d still never be able to describe her.) He held his peace though, and followed Goonette, with Axel remaining at attention by the lift doors. 

 

John found himself in a bunker. It was obvious by the thick grey riveted walls, reminiscent of the interior of a German Submarine, that it had been built during World War II, and fortified during the Cold War. 

 

Goonette soon came to a plain, black door and knocked. The door opened. 

 

“John.” Anthea, looking singularly displeased to see him, ushered him into the room. 

 

John had always imagined Mycroft’s offices to be just that—offices, accoutered in Regency or some other archaic and old-money furnishings assembled to make working-class blokes like him feel plebeian. This was a small Spartan room, with a no-nonsense version of Mycroft sitting behind his featureless desk. The flickering, weak fluorescent lighting cast sinister shadows on Mycroft’s unsmiling face. 

 

John noted that he was not offered a chair. Goonette made her exit, along with Anthea who favored John with a reproving look. 

 

Mycroft just looked at John for a long uncomfortable moment. John controlled the urge to either squirm or begin shouting. 

 

For the first time, John felt a prickle of uncertainty. He’d come here to demand answers, answers about Sherlock’s time away; about his…rape. He’d stormed into the Diogenes club with the grand idea of bullying Mycroft for the answers he wanted, and in his rage and guilt and desperate need for answers, he’d forgotten something crucial. 

 

Mycroft was the British Government. The. British. Government. 

 

He started and ended wars for breakfast.

 

Maybe John hadn’t thought this through enough. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water, chilling him to the bone. 

 

John rounded his shoulders, and settled into parade rest. He forced his hands to relax out of their involuntary fists.

 

Mycroft regarded John as he would an idiot schoolboy. “John,”, he drawled. “So nice of you to drop in unannounced.” He gave John a look that managed to be both guileless and sardonic. “ Timely, nevertheless. I have something I wish to say to you.”

 

“What?” John was already snappish, deciding that, British Government or not, he was not taking any shit from Mycroft Holmes. “What the hell could you have to say to me?”

 

Peering down his nose at John, Mycroft said calmly, “You are never to see Sherlock again. Not ever again.” 

 

**

 

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a little chat with John...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but I went over and over this chapter-- trying to get it right. Still a little dubious; but here's my best. Hope y'all enjoy. 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated! Thanks so much for hanging in there with me. :-)
> 
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> **

PREVIOUSLY:

Mycroft regarded John as he would an idiot schoolboy. “John,” he drawled. “So nice of you to drop in unannounced.” He gave John a look that managed to be both guileless and sardonic. “Timely, nevertheless. I have something I wish to say to you.”

 

“What?” John was already snappish, deciding that, British Government or not, he was not taking any shit from Mycroft Holmes. “What the hell could you have to say to me?”

 

Peering down his nose at John, Mycroft said calmly, “You are never to see Sherlock again. Not ever again.” 

 

**

NOW:

 

For an eternity, John froze. He couldn’t even breathe. 

“W-what?” he stammered, as his stomach dropped to the floor. “I- I — why?” 

Mycroft gave him a look of unveiled contempt. “Have a seat, John,” he said, gesturing to an uncomfortable looking office chair in front of his desk. 

John just stared at him, clenching his fists, grinding his teeth. 

“Sit.” Mycroft said again, deliberately over enunciating the word. 

Stiffly, John took his seat, sitting perched on the edge at attention. He wanted to spring right back up, and punch Mycroft in the face, and keep pummeling him until his face was a mass of pulp, until he didn’t get up again, until he was dead— 

“And, that’s why I’m forbidding you to see Sherlock. You’re sitting there, barely able to control yourself, fantasizing about attacking me. It’s written all over your face. But then, you’ve never been a subtle man.” 

John felt heat suffuse his face, as he took a slow, deep breath through his nose. Then another. 

Mycroft just looked at him, waiting for him to get himself under control, obviously speculating. 

“Why—” John began, and then cleared his throat, “Why are you doing this?” 

Mycroft leaned forward, palms together, index fingers steepled under his chin, looking unnervingly like Sherlock. “Are you ready to listen? Are you capable of that?” 

Swallowing heavily, John forced back a bitter reply. “Yes. I’m listening.” 

Crossing his arms, Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “Then listen to me, very carefully.” He raised an eyebrow. “John,” he said calmly, “you need to pull your head out of your ass.” 

John’s eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open. “Me? I need to—”

“Shut up, John, and listen to me.” 

John shut up, gripping the arms of the chair so hard he thought he’d break them, but he stayed quiet. 

“Now.” Mycroft said, “I realize you’ve been through a lot. I know you’ve felt betrayed, I know you were wounded most grievously by Sherlock’s “hide and go seek excursion—”

John winced, having his own words thrown back at him, because it was obvious that Mycroft had been listening in on that particular conversation. “You bastard—”

“Shut. Up. And listen. To. Me.” Mycroft growled. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about your ill timed little foray into alternative lifestyles? Do you know what you’ve done to Sherlock? Do you care? Are you capable of caring about someone other than yourself--?” 

“That’s not fair. You have no idea of what I went through. He made me watch him jump; he made me think that he was dead, he did this to me!”

“Yes, yes, I know, John—everybody knows, you’ve told everyone who would listen; you’ve cried it from the rooftops, you’re Sherlock’s victim. He betrayed you by saving your life. Mrs. Hudson’s. Lestrade’s. Oh, how sorry I feel for you,” Mycroft sneered. 

“He should have taken me with him!” John felt the rage curling up though his chest, choking him. “I could have helped!”

“How?” Mycroft asked, seriously. 

“I—”, John started.

“You’re frankly inept at any sort of obfuscation, how would you maintain a cover story, John? Your emotions tie you up in knots ninety percent of the time, how would you have been able to get past sentiment to do what needed to be done?” 

“You’re wrong,” John said, doggedly.”I was a soldier, I can handle myself— and you told everyone else—” 

“You’re frightfully mulish and unreasonable at the best of times, John— change it up a little and try to be reasonable, now. Make an effort to hear and process what I am saying to you.” Mycroft said, getting up from his chair. He came around to the front of his desk, and leaned a hip on it, staring down his nose at John, lips curved in an angry little smile. 

John had to control the urge to shoot up out of his chair to slam a fist into that sneering, supercilious face.

Mycroft’s eyes scanned over John’s form, obviously noting the tightly coiled muscles, the clenched fists, and he quirked an eyebrow, knowingly. John found himself getting even more wound up. 

When Mycroft spoke again, it was with the air of a great pronouncement, the headmaster dressing down a particularly stupid boy, “John Watson, you’re frankly incapable of controlling your temper; what would you have done when a target you were supposed to be cozying up to became too irritating for you to bear? You’d engage in fisticuffs, blowing yours and Sherlock’s cover, and then the two of you would have been killed.”

“That’s not true!”

“And when is the last time you hit Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, bringing up a hand to study his nails. 

“I—”, John stopped, cold. 

“I told Sherlock that he might not be welcomed by you, and he didn’t listen. Oh, I know, you don’t think him capable of feeling anything— sentiment- but he feels for you, very deeply. Did you not beat him for his trouble?” 

“He had it coming,” John answered, automatically, “More than what I gave him.”

“Did you know he’d been rescued from being tortured, only hours prior to your...giving him what for?” 

“W-what?” 

“He was wounded. He’d already been beaten. And then you bloodied him up a bit more.” 

“No—I wouldn’t have— if I’d known—” 

“You didn’t give him a chance, did you?”

“I tried—” 

“Punish first, talk later. Sound familiar?” 

John sagged in his seat, unable to think of anything to say. It was true, he’d been so intent on punishing Sherlock, that listening— the very idea of it had been too much to bear. And the sense of betrayal he’d felt upon learning that everyone else, even Molly— knew— it had thrown him. Thrown him badly. He hadn’t known he was capable of that kind of rage. Until Mary shot Sherlock, and he’d felt the fool again. He looked up at Mycroft, utterly defeated. 

“How do I fix this?” he asked, miserably.” I...I love him so much. I can’t lose him. Not again.” 

“Ah. He can learn. Two things.” Mycroft straightened, and ambled back to his seat. He eased himself into it, leaning back, regarding John with a rare look of sincerity. “John— here’s what you can do. You need to let me help you, help Sherlock. First, you don’t hit him again.” 

 

“Done.” John said, hope blossoming in his chest. “Never again.” 

 

“The next part’s harder.” Mycroft said quietly. 

 

And, just like that, John was absolutely certain what Mycroft would say, next. His whole body went stiff. 

 

“John.” Mycroft said softly, “Who shot him?” He leaned forward, urgently. “Was it Mary?” 

 

“I can’t.” John managed to choke out. 

“John, if you truly love Sherlock, and I believe you do— you’ll tell me the truth. Otherwise, you’ll never see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Oh, God—” John started, then stopped, unable to continue. He felt as if his heart was being shredded, ripped in two. Staring down at his hands for a long, long moment, he tried to control the tears springing to his eyes. “How did you find out?” 

“Educated guess. Nothing else fits.” Mycroft answered, patiently. “And, it’s not just Mary, you know. There has to be someone else working with her. All the evidence around Sherlock’s shooting disappeared. Was that you?” 

“No. It wasn’t me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, and then raised his head to look Mycroft in the eye. What he saw there decided him. Mycroft was right. It was the right thing to do. For himself, for Sherlock. 

He cleared his throat. “This. This isn’t easy for me. I didn’t know, I didn’t know who she was. What she was. But. Yes. She shot him. She killed him. He died on the table. It’s a miracle he revived. But. She’s pregnant with my child. My child, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft hung his head for a moment. When he raised his head again, a curious mix of compassion and righteous wrath burned in his eyes. “Thank you, John. Do you have anything; know anything else that can help us?”

“Magnussen. He said he knew— knew who she really was. Knew who was after her. But—he’s dead, now Sherlock killed him.” 

“Well,” Mycroft smiled a little to himself, “-that’s not quite true, John.”

 

**

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for being so late with this chapter, but I seriously had to deal with RL and then some! Thanks for waiting, thanks to all of you who have read and commented. I hope you enjoy the new chapter-- and comments are always welcome.  
> Keep in mind that I'm flying by the seat of my pants-- and this is neither beta'ed nor Brit-Picked. 
> 
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> 
> ***

PREVIOUSLY: 

Mycroft hung his head for a moment. When he raised his head again, righteous wrath burned in his eyes. “Thank you, John. Do you have anything; know anything that can help us?”

“Magnussen. He said he knew— knew who she really was. Knew who was after her. But—he’s dead, now Sherlock killed him.” 

“Well,” Mycroft smiled a little to himself, “-that’s not quite true, John.”

 

**

NOW:

 

John stared at Mycroft in absolute shock. “W-wha—“, he whispered, “but I saw—“ 

 

Mycroft’s mouth crimped in that irritating cat-who-got-the canary grin that made John want to slap him. “Have you never heard of special effects, John?” He leaned back in his chair, indolent and smug. “It wasn’t hard to set up. Magnussen bargained with me for a few frankly tiresome items, in return for saving his life—but he has so far refused to give us more information—particularly on your wife, until he was assured of his safety. But, for obvious reasons, John, you couldn’t know. As far as I knew, you were compromised—“

 

“Because of Mary.” John finished, unhappily. “Kept out of the loop, always kept out of everything. I’m not your bloody pawn, Mycroft!”

 

Mycroft raised an imperious eyebrow. 

 

John mentally counted to ten. “Right, “he said, schooling his face into something less hostile. “Magnussen. So, you faked that, too. “Sudden realization made the breath slam to a painful halt stop in his chest. “You knew,” He wheezed, pointing a shaking index finger at Mycroft. “You knew about Mary. What she was. You bloody knew.”

 

The lines at the sides of Mycroft’s mouth deepened into a scowl. “We didn’t know she shot Sherlock, and her records have been so thoroughly expunged that it’s been next to impossible to get any real fix on her background. The evidence collected from the scene was…lost.”

 

John grimaced. “Someone at the Yard? But, if you have Magnussen, you have Mary. What do you need me for?”

 

“Magnussen has information, but it’s in his Mind Palace”, Mycroft sniffed. “Unusable as evidence, and he has a tendency to embellish. He stored knowledge for the purposes of sensationalist headlines, but we need incontrovertible proof. We have nothing solid. And, neither did he. Insinuations, allegations, yes. Proof? No. Hopefully, you can help us with that.”

 

“Wait.” Something tickled at the edge of John’s awareness. “Wait. What made you suspicious of Mary in the first place?” John, asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer. 

 

“I’ve had you under surveillance since Sherlock went on his mission, “Mycroft said, staring at a point over John’s head. “We knew you were being watched by Moriarty’s people. So, we noted Ms. Morstan’s appearance, confident that our surface evaluation showed her to be nothing more than she seemed. But certain things didn’t add up. The timing of her entrance into your clinic, into your life, from out of nowhere. I took the initiative to dig a little deeper, and found that Mary Morstan’s identity had been stolen a little more than five years ago, appropriated from a stillborn baby born in 1973. I immediately suspected that she was connected to Moriarty, she almost certainly had to be; there were certain signifiers that our people noticed.”

 

“Signifiers—”

 

“No paper trail on her prior to the last five years, obsessive about checking all points of ingress and egress--”

 

“Wait-what?”

 

“Entry and exits. Escape routes.” 

 

“You thought she was a threat because she checked for exits—“

 

“Are you going to let me finish, John?”

 

“Sure. Sorry.”

 

“She noticed the first surveillance team, as we meant her to; they were only in place for us to assess whether she had the instincts we’d expect in someone who had worked covertly, whether for Moriarty or for certain other organizations. She did notice, but took no overt action other than to remove the audio surveillance devices we’d planted in your clinic, your flat, and her own flat.”

 

John bristled. “Mycroft—you bugged my flat? Of course you did.”

 

Mycroft gave John a look that clearly suggested that he believed John to be an idiot, and said smoothly, “My thoughts? I suspect that she got close to you because you were being used as a marker, John, someone who –“

 

“Like one of Sherlock’s rats.” 

 

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste, but nodded. “Appalling term, but yes.”

 

“That’s why I was kept in the dark about – about Sherlock—about his time away. About him leaving, the way he did. I was a marker. Moriarty’s rat.”

 

“It took you long enough, “Mycroft muttered, snidely. “Mary seemed to know just what to do to reel you in, too, quite neatly.”

 

John flushed, remembering. It had been almost as if Mary had been tailor-made for him. She’d taken a grieving, devastated man under her wing; always available to comfort, always gently steering him back into life; turning his life around. A chill went through him as he thought about it, really thought for the first time in at least six months. Mary had almost miraculously brought John back to life, but she had also bound him to her, heart and soul. Over time, John had become more and more dependent on Mary for his very sanity; for his ability to go on living…after Sherlock.

 

When had his pain turned into such toxic, unrelenting anger? 

 

John thought about all those little well placed comments, like tiny darts poking tiny holes through his sense of self, through his memories about Sherlock…Mary…Mary had always been there with those sweetly poisonous observations about Sherlock…and it hadn’t stopped even after Sherlock had returned from his mission. 

 

Her voice permeated his consciousness; a hundred, a thousand little comments flooded him in a never ending stream …

 

He did it to prove he was more clever than everybody else; if he couldn’t win, he didn’t want to live--

 

It was all a game to him—don’t you see that, John? 

 

He couldn’t have really cared about you; if he had, he never would have jumped—

 

He was just using you, like he used everybody else--

 

You can’t go on grieving for somebody who never loved you--

 

Well, what did you expect, love? He’s incapable of feeling for someone other than himself…

 

He made a joke of it—

 

Sure, have him in bed, have sex with him, but he’ll never really love you—

 

“John?” Dimly, John registered Mycroft speaking, breaking through his reverie. His eyes widened, and rage came flooding once again to the surface, boiling like lava, lethal and thunderous. His fingers twitched, claw-like; clenching brutally on the wooden armrests. He nearly vibrated with the intensity of his anger. But he managed a shaky nod.

 

For a moment, something like compassion swept across Mycroft’s face, swiftly fading. “John. We know that she gave you a memory stick. Sherlock never looked at it. Did you look at it before you burned it?”

 

John but his bottom lip to keep from shouting, crying, screaming…

 

“John.”

 

John’s eyes squeezed tightly shut. He couldn’t take this, he couldn’t. All of this. All of this, Mary—Moriarty’s fault. And he had blamed Sherlock for all of it. He’d punished him, beat him, strangled him, and all of his rage… carefully nurtured from the seed of hurt and grief into a gaping maw of loss and pain, kindled into a blaze that became a conflagration of absolutely murderous fury.

 

…why? 

 

There was a psychopath in his life, and it wasn’t him, and it wasn’t Sherlock. 

 

What the hell did I marry?

 

“John.”

 

“I never looked at the memory stick, Mycroft. “

 

“Then the information’s lost. You burned it at Christmas, did you not? You threw it in the fireplace at my parent’s house. You should have let Sherlock look at it, first.” Mycroft said, disgustedly. “Really, John. Burning it? We’ll have to access other sources--”

 

“Not quite.” For the first time in a very long time, John felt cool clarity rush over him like water from a mountain stream, frigid and deliciously bracing. “You and Sherlock aren’t the only ones who can do a big reveal,” John said, relishing the gob smacked look on Mycroft’s face. “It was a fake,” John said, “I still have the original. It has the initials of her real name on it.”

 

“What initials?” Mycroft stilled, suddenly.

 

“A.G.R.A.” 

 

“Oh, my God.” Mycroft slumped in his chair, suddenly, looking defeated. “John, I’m so sorry.” 

 

“What?” John went rigid. “What do you mean it’s not—“

 

“AGRA isn’t a name. It’s an acronym. “Mycroft whispered. “It’s a terrorist attack protocol.”  
John just stared. How much worse was this going to get?

 

Mycroft looked beaten. “I’m truly sorry, John. AGRA stands for Artificial Gestational Retroviral Attack.” 

 

**


End file.
